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The It Girl

Glory be! I am officially with Internet at home. As I was visiting my daily reads, subconsciously forming ideas for blog entries, Liz tagged me! Now check me out!

Ten years ago, August 1995

I was in the summer before my sophomore year in high school and revelling in the looooove I had found with my first official boyfriend. Spent much of that summer crying, as my first official boyfriend had a bad habit of not calling me for three weeks in a row. Discovered Jewel and The Shawsank Redemption. Despite being over for ten years, the eighties were taking refuge in the height of my bangs. Was very self-conscious about my butt and never wore a shirt that didn't cover it completely. Began the sequel to my first baby's-mama-drama, Love, Betrayal, and a Baby, a story I will absolutely make you read when I am that tapped for blog-entry ideas. Babysat two children under the age of eight three days a week for twenty-five bucks. Spent money on french fries and candy. This may explain why I also had acne, BUT MAYBE NOT SO LEAVE ME ALONE.

Five years ago, August 2000

Summer before junior year in college and was in looooove with "Oh-my-god-he-lives-with-his-mother" boyfriend number 2. Was working at the Sam Goody in Water Tower Place in downtown Chicago and almost caught a glimpse of Sting. Had one of the best hair summers of my life. Had my first this-is-my-fault-I-think? car accident where I merged into the left lane and was hit by the van next to me. We both pulled into the nearest Krispy Kreme (yes, I still had acne, didn't I tell you to leave me be?), but he took off when I suggested calling the cops. Story was altered to paint a picture of a hit-and-run when I told my parents the next day, and unless they read this blog, they will never know the truth. (Mwa, ha ha!) I spent the next two months worrying that the van guy would track me down at Sam Goody and garnish my $5.45/hour wages to pay for what I imagined to be thousands of dollars' worth of damage.

Yesterday, Saturday August 27, 2005

Spent the day with so-not-a-loser boyfriend number 3, the last boyfriend I will ever have. Had a crappy breakfast featuring some new version of Alpha-Bits that boasts of NO SUGAR! and WHOLE GRAINS! The box may as well have shouted, "Eat this crap if you like Cheerios but are frightened of their perfect, circular shape!"

Hiked at a local city park. Had Boston Market for dinner. Watched Sin City and ate a fourth of a pint of Ben and Jerry's Peanut Butter Cup ice cream--and that was showing restraint. Connected to the joyous, joyous Internet.

Tomorrow, Monday, August 29, 2005

Will possess the superhuman capability of not checking blogs until lunchtime, now that I can play on the Web all night long at home. See graphic-design proof of employee handbook and eat Ramen noodles in a cup for lunch, because pay day is still five days away. Attend fitting for post-Labor Day fashion show. Probably regret the Ben and Jerry's I devoured on Saturday night. Possibly also cry.

At night, talk to Luke about Moving Day. Vaccuum the new patch of carpet in my living room, since the couch that used to cover it now resides in Bloomington with my sister. Possibly sit on the floor and watch episodes from the first season of Murder, She Wrote, or maybe just the episode where Monica and Chandler move in together on Friends. That episode is, like, so symbolic of my life. Kinda. Our apartment is a lot smaller than theirs.

I know most of the lyrics of these five bands/artists

- Mariah Carey (pre-Glitter)
- Lionel Ritchie
- Liz Phair
- Elton John
- Shania Twain

Five things I'd do with a million dollars

- Pay off all debt--car, student loans, credit card. Hasta la vista, baby!
- Buy some Proactive so I can get rid of my acne, because, enough already
- Convince Luke that we'll be able to comfortably afford more than two children
- Name something after myself (Why Frema's Chubby Cheesecake?)
- Buy more clothes for my Build-a-Bear

Five places I'd run away to

- Navy Pier
- Disneyworld
- Niagra Falls
- A mall that has New York and Company, The Limited, and a department store with a Clinique counter
- Home

Five bad habits I have

- Flatulating. Am famous for SBDs
- Biting the skin around my nails
- Telling people how much I pay for things ("Hey, great shoes!" "Payless. Only ten bucks!")
- Ending up at my destination five to ten minutes late, regardless of where I'm going
- Leaving laundry in the dryer overnight

Five things I like doing

- Blogging
- Reading
- Thinking about excercising
- Talking about the future (anyone's will do)
- Eating spinach dip

Five things I wouldn't wear

- Tube tops
- Ankle bracelets
- Necklaces
- Earrings
- Socks with those individual toe things. Creepy!

Five movies I love

- While You Were Sleeping
- When Harry Met Sally (seriously, Liz!)
- The Wedding Singer
- It's a Wonderful Life
- Austin Powers: International Man of Mystery

Five famous people I'd like to meet

- Kiefer Sutherland
- Tobey Maguire
- Edward Furlong (aka John Connor in Terminator 2)
- Clinton and Stacy from What Not to Wear

Five favorite toys

- Food processor
- Work's digital camera
- My new work computer
- Pen collection
- Shredder

Person to tag

Luke! because, duh
But also Painting Chef

A Wedding Wedgie

I can't believe I forgot to write about this the other day--it consumed my entire being for three-fourths of the ceremony. As it's not considered classy to pick underwear out of your tush when you're standing in front of 120 people in God's house, I kept my hands to myself, but it was one of the hardest things I've ever done in my life. Which made it even more painful to hear Father Off-the-Subject ramble about Notre Dame and his upcoming fiftieth anniversary with the priesthood and his praise of Samantha's Italian heritage. Please note that the only Italian in Samantha's background is the occasional spaghetti dinner and her devout love for pizza. The cause for celebration is questionable.

Anyway, I've got a better handle on my emotions and am slowly making peace with the fact that not everyone will jump for joy at the moving-in-together news. And that's OK. Luke and I were not asking for permission, or approval, or even for advice when we spilled the beans. Those who think this is a mistake are certainly entitled to their opinion. However, we reserve the right to feel excited and happy, so for those of you who are actually on board, much love.

To prepare for Moving Day, which has yet to be determined, we are each taking inventory of our respective things and mulling over what can stay and what must go. I am also preparing to lament over the loss of my fabulous closet space. Right now the left side is reserved for casual clothes and the right for work clothes, with both divided by season. The shelving unit holds almost all of my gazillion shoes, and my purses are nestled comfortably on top. I think I can live with everything else, but this will take the most getting used to.

I also asked whether or not we would keep any CD duplicates, but Luke assures me there are more important matters to dwell on. Besides, who COULDN'T use two copies of Liz Phair's Whitechocolatespaceegg?

A Wedding Story

Well, she did it! On August 19, my little sister, the girl who sucked her thumb until the age of nine, became a wife.

She was amazing. No apprehension, no worries, just full of eagerness to get to the church and start her life with Dan. I held it together pretty well until she and my father made their way down the aisle. Mad props to Maybelline's Full 'n Soft waterproof mascara in Very Black.

Here I am, showing off a sleek blow-out, an air-tan, and the red lipstick that only comes out when I'm feeling particularly adult. Also, scandulous cleavage. It could not be contained.

There were a few surprises with the tan, the biggest one being that an "air technician" applied it to me personally instead of an automatic sprayer. Which basically means that I got to first base with a Keira Knightly look-alike who saw me and my flabby flab in all its naked glory. I was also given disposable underwear to don, but for all the coverage it provided, I could have just put on a maxi-pad and connected it with a string around my waist. I put the smackdown on that and refused to take off my briefs. I do have some pride. And for all that trouble, it had all but faded from my face by Thursday night. Bronzer to the rescue, with mixed success.

Here are The Cleavage and I, keeping Samantha's wedding dress from hitting the pavement. Apparently this very act is the sole reason for having a maid of honor. Even the priest (who took a brief hiatus from his homily to talk about Notre Dame's football team) was telling me to pick up her train. Very, very important.

The reception was a lot of fun. The only glitch was that the air conditioning konked out from a brown-out the night before, turning the hall into a giant sweat box. My sister was so hot in her dress I thought she was going to faint, so she ended up ditching her slip after pictures, a slip I had to cut her out of with a steak knife. I blame my mother and her affection for the double knot.

Now it is Tuesday, and life is still filled with The Crazy. We moved Ryan into her Bloomington apartment on Sunday so that she could start transfer orientation at IU. Luke and I also made the big decision to move in together by the end of September, whether or not he had another job lined up. He gave his two weeks' notice at the newspaper yesterday, and we both broke the news last night to our parents. His are very supportive; mine are more skeptical. My mother thinks it's a way to avoid marriage, despite my telling her that we want to get married soon, and they both wonder why four and a half years have passed without it already happening. I haven't made a move that they haven't been proud of for almost four years now, and when you have the emotional sensitivity of a kindergartener, it hits you pretty hard. I understand where they're coming from, but it hurts just the same.

As if THAT joy wasn't enough, I found out that I filled out the wrong consolidation forms and now owe a four-hundred-dollar bill to The-Evil-Student-Loan-Company-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named in three weeks, half of which is overdue. It'll take about a week to sort out, so in the meantime I get to fantasize about where to find four hundred dollars if this bill actually needs to get paid. God forbid they CALL me and TELL me about the screw-up. It's not the end of the world; I know I can get the money. It's just one more thing to keep me from paying down my Visa bill. Grrrrrr.

And I still haven't finished Harry Potter. At this point I'm tempted to use the last precious vacation day I have just to BE DONE WITH IT already. And I still have to model in that post-Labor Day fashion show. In case you can't tell, I am not in a very model-y mood. If all else fails, I can bust out with The Cleavage. No pun intended.

Memories of Sissy

The picture on the right is not meant to indicate my sister's state of mind but is rather my own attempt to bring humor to a site that has, recently, been junked with body-image woes, self-pity parties over a three-hour drive, and the loss of "real" TV. No more, I say! In two days, Samantha will marry a truly wonderful man, and I will be sporting an air tan, manicure, pedicure, and a great blow-out. Everybody wins!

Last night, I was combing through family pictures, searching for inspiration for my maid-of-honor toast, and recalled favorite memories of my sister and me...

- sharing the toilet because we were both to stubborn to let the other one go first

- making trips to the corner store, her chasing me with fallen tree branches and yelling, "I'm going to get you with my horny horns!" (Don't turn that into anything dirty, this is a special childhood memory, for cripe's sake)

- inventing "Friend," a game involving a neverending conversation between stick women boasting of long hair and flowy dresses. Wasting tons of our mother's precious notebook paper and our back-to-school Crayola markers, we would each speak for our respective stick woman and carry them through the joys and pitfalls of life. We occupied ourselves for hours with this game. HOURS. When there was no paper, we drew inside the covers of my Archie comic books.

- giving manicures to our Barbie dolls (read: biting the tips of their hands so that they extended an extra forty feet)

- playing in our swimming pool, which usually included solo performances, interpretive dances, and Dramatic Death Scenes, me floating on the top, eyes closed, while she sobbed over my too-brief existence

- having late-night talks on school nights as teenagers, her smoking by the window and trying desperately to push the smoke out the window at the sound of our mother's knock

And now she's going to be somebody's wife. Holy crap. I'm a jumble of emotions, emotions that seem to best manifest themselves through crying and peeing. I may have to wear Depends on The Big Day. Meanwhile, it's time to search for some serious waterproof mascara.

But before I go, here's a song that has special meaning to Samantha and me.

A Friend to Me
(Garth Brooks)

Well you and I
We're buddies
And we've been since we first met
Me and you
Well we've sure been through
Our share of laughter and regret
Lord knows we've had our bad days
And more than once we've disagreed
But you've always been a friend to me

You can be so stubborn
There's times I think you just like to fight
And I hope and pray I live to see a day
When you say I might be right
And there's times I'd rather kill you
Than listen to your honesty
But you've always been a friend to me

You've always been
Time and again
The one to take my hand
And show me it's okay to be
Just the way I am
With no apology

Oh you've always been
And you will 'til God knows when
Yes you've always been a friend to me

I love you, Sissy.

Losing Cable, My Mind, And Other Necessities

The cable. It is done.

What started out as an innocent phone call to Comcast last Thursday about possibly terminating cable service in the next week or so turned into the bastard pulling the plug while I was on the phone. While I was watching the last ten minutes of All My Children. The horror! Imagine being a smoker, casually talking about how you'd like to quit, and out of nowhere somebody SHAMELESSLY rips the lit cigarette from your fingers and CRUSHES IT INTO THE GROUND.

While trying to cope with this new sense of loss, I traveled to Chicago this weekend to visit with family and friends--OK, I came in to recolor my hair but thought I would stick around to visit with family and friends--and found out my sister is continuing to get dumped on with all kinds of "assvice" (coined by Amalah) about the wedding. (Which, by the way, is this Friday, which, OH MY GOD.) If one more person says one more thing to make my sister cry, I will choke them to death with my cable cord. God knows I don't need it for cable.

I also had a mini-breakdown, if "mini" means sobbing for three hours about wedding shenanigans, averaging 300 miles per weekend on your car, and missing the boyfriend who has yet to join you in Indianapolis. You know, the usual. I am trying to stay positive, but it's been hard. I've actually considered whether or not this whole "great job in Indy" thing will work out. Life would be much easier if I had somebody other than Harry Potter to comfort me in my zip code, but even he's preoccupied, what with this whole Half-Blood Prince business.

On that note, have a happy day, everyone!

Frema Shook it Like a Polaroid Picture

The Shake 'N Bake I made last night, that is. For the first time in Indianapolis and only the second time in my life, I had me a glorious chicken dinner. Though unfortunately I was the only one who benefitted from this, there are four meals' worth of leftovers that will finish out my lunches and dinner for the rest of the week, so it was a worthy endeavor overall.

It was a good feeling, to eat something that I didn't release from a can or some sort of "pull here" packaging. Having grown weary of Campbell's Soup at Hand, Lean Cuisine teriaki bowls, and moldy-bread sandwiches, I decided to spice things up at the Super Target last Sunday and purchased ingredients requiring the operation of an oven and having nothing to do with spinach-artichoke dip (which still ROCKS!, by the way). Maybe it's silly to feel so proud. It's not like I broke a sweat or even created anything from scratch. Truth be told, though, I've always been a little afraid of cooking. The most I'd done as a child was microwave vegatables, and I didn't even enjoy that. Once I moved out of the dorms and into my own house, I tried a couple of different things--tarts, pumpkin pie, sweet potatoes--with mixed success.

Actually, this cooking phobia is just one instance that shows how unwilling I am to try new things. I can take a new job and move to a new city all by myself but refuse to check the air in my tires, install my printer, or change a fuse. Maybe it's because I've always had someone to do these chores for me. Maybe because I'm a girl. Maybe because I'm just that lazy.

However, I'm even more afraid of the idea of my future family living on KFC and frozen lasagnas, so this cooking thing must be overcome. My parents were wonderful at it; there were pot roasts, homemade apple pies, mashed potatoes actually mashed by my mother's own two hands. And it looked so easy! They never let on much calculating it took to bring a meal and all of its various parts together. The only side dish I prepared last night was Rice-A-Roni, which turned out OK, but it finished cooking ten minutes after I'd taken the chicken out, so everything was eaten in stages. Really, I had my own little play, A Dinner in Two Acts, with an optional third act in the form of an orange sherbet push-up at 12:30 in the morning.

I'll get there, future Frema family. Have faith. I'll get there.

I Am Spousal Abuse Black and Blue

Don't ask, just click here.

This color is oddly appropriate for me, not because I have ever been a victim of spousal abuse, but because I used to give all the Barbies in my coloring books black eyes that spread down to the middle of their cheeks. Brilliant shades of black, purple, and blue. Her break-up with Ken was definitely for the best.

You Better WORK!

Dear God, help us all. Because on September 7th? This body will find itself on a Parisian runway. The chances of that body looking like the one on the right? Not so good.

When Indianapolis Ambassadors first sent out a request for models for its fall style show, I didn't give it a second thought. A Carrie Bradshow fashion icon I am not. The promotion indicated the show was in good fun and provided an especially creative way for new members to acclimate themselves to the group. Not scary! Fun! But still. No.

Until this morning, that is, when I received a frantic e-mail from the social activities coordinator saying that five women and three men were still needed for the style show. So, out of guilt for not having attended a single volunteer event yet, and out of responsibility to this blog ("that night will SO make for a killah entry!"), I offered up my services.

For the most part, I don't really suffer from low self-esteem. Even with all its blemishes and rolls, I'm pretty satisfied with my body, as long as it's dressed in pretty clothes that properly disguise what I don't like (stomach and thighs) and accentuate what I do (collarbone?). But it took me a long time to get this way. Growing up, I can remember flipping through The Big Bopper and Teen Beat with my sister Samantha and telling her confidently, "All the singers and actors in here have, like, 600 people working to make them look pretty. Every normal person has stomach rolls and love handles." I truly believed this until I went bathing-suit shopping in college and saw one of my friends sport a bikini. Her stomach was flat as a rock, and as far as I knew, she didn't live on a bread-and-water diet or have a personal trainer stashed in her dorm. I took a harder look at myself, thought, "Maybe a person's gut ISN'T supposed to hang over her jeans." Interesting concept.

It didn't help matters that, in the same year, a guy I was dating patted my belly and said, "I don't remember you having this when we first started going out." The day after "the incident," his mother cooked pancakes for breakfast (yes, he was 28 years old and living with his mother, I GET IT now), and I couldn't handle more than four bites. I was too embarrassed to eat in front of him.

Things got better, though. In 2001 I met Luke (actually bought him, but that's another entry), who has never made me feel inferior or ugly or unlovable in the four years we've been together, just one of the many reasons why I want to him father my children. In 2003 I joined this program and lost 22 pounds. (It really does work!) I also made it a point to visit my ex the following summer, "just to hang out," when my ultimate goal was to hear him say, "God, you look great! Don't you ever eat?" Which he did, so IN YOUR FACE, EX NUMBER TWO.

In the last year, I've slacked off. I will not tell you how many of the Weight Watchers pounds I gained back, and there are moments when I look into a full-length mirror and understand how anorexia is so popular among women. But I am doing my darndest to take better care of my body and also quit placing such high expectations on it. Sometimes you just gotta have that Ben and Jerry's fix and move on with life.

In the meantime, though, I've got a style show to prepare for.

But I Have Never Eaten Cake Out of the Garbage

   

* Thanks to Becky for rejuvenating this Sexy game.

I'm a Miranda! Which means...

"You're smart, witty, trustworthy, level-headed, and industrious. You value your independance above all else. Success is very important to you. You give the impression that you may be a little jaded, but you still harbour school-girl fantasies of finding someone who'll make you giggle and blush.

You can also be almost irrationally compulsive at times and are excessively cynical. Structure, order, and schedule are very important to you. You have no tolerance for the majority of men these days. You find their behaviour completely unfathomable, and feel that if a man's over thirty and single, there's something wrong with him. It's Darwinian. They're being weeded out from propagating the species."

Miranda quotes:

"I know you're probably busy having mind-blowing sex, but I feel you need to know that your good friend, Miranda Hobbes, has just taken a piece of cake out of the garbage and eaten it. You'll probably need this information when you check me into the Betty Crocker Clinic."

"I used to masturbate to a busboy who was rude to me once. What do you think that means?"

So, who the hell are you?

For the Cheese in You

It is well known that I am a sucker for "light rock"--the kind filtered into elevators, grocery stores, and "please hold" automated phone calls. I blame my parents. At 11 years old, I was not allowed to listen to the majority of popular music, as they were convinced I would fall prey to the racy messages embedded into each sexual-innuendo-boasting lyric. At the time, I wept. How could a parent think songs like "Baby Got Back," "Doggystyle," and "Big Booty Hoes" contained inappropriate content for children under 13? I was in the sixth grade and therefore All Knowing and Mature. Why couldn't they see this?

But no matter. I took comfort in the love ballads and jazzy tunes of the seventies and eighties, and even though the music ban was lifted in high school, the damage had already been done. Billy Ocean love songs took over my brain following the months of my first official break-up. Want something peppier? Taylor Dayne's "Don't Rush Me" was not only an instant pick-me-up but also a promoter of abstinence. It was a win-win situation.

Now, as a 25-year-old adult (and therefore All Knowing and Mature), my musical taste has adapted a comfortable mix of the two. Elton John's greatest hits CD is just as viable a choice as Tha Low Down. However, for the commute to and from work, I find myself once again drawn to light rock. I've heard the song below every day for the last week and a half, and not even on the same station. I remember hearing this as a child but not being as affected by it as I am now. Now, you may think you aren't familiar with the genius that is Bruce Hornsby, but anyone who's heard Tupac's "That's Just the Way It Is" should know that Tupac STOLE the title, chorus, and music from Mr. Hornsby himself. Not that I'm bitter or anything.

Anyway, I normally don't feature lyrics here, but I think these can stand on their own, without the accompaniment of song.

Mandolin Rain
(Bruce Hornsby)

The song came and went
Like the times that we spent
Hiding out from the rain under the carnival tent
I laughed and she'd smile
It would last for a while
You don't know what you got till you lose it all again

Listen to the mandolin rain
Listen to the music on the lake
Listen to my heart break
Every time she runs away
Listen to the banjo wind
A sad song drifting low
Listen to the tears roll
Down my face as she turns to go

A cool evening dance
Listening to the bluegrass band takes the chill
From the air till they play the last song
I'll do my time
Keeping you off my mind
But there's moments that I find
I'm not feeling so strong

Listen to the mandolin rain
Listen to the music on the lake
Listen to my heart break
Every time she runs away
Listen to the banjo wind
A sad song drifting low
Listen to the tears roll
Down my face as she turns to go

Running down by the lakeshore
She did love the sound of a summer storm
It played on the lake like a mandolin
Now it's washing her away once again

The boat's steaming in
I watch the sidewheel spin
And I think about her when I hear that whistle blow
I can't change my mind
I knew all the time
That she'd go
But that's a choice I made long ago

Listen to the mandolin rain
Listen to the music on the lake
Listen to my heart break
Every time she runs away
Listen to the banjo wind
A sad song drifting low
Listen to the tears roll
Down my face as she turns to go

Is It Really So Wrong To...

- Put "Philadelphia Freedom" on repeat during your morning commute?

- Each lunch at 10:30 in the morning, just like in high school?

- Ask lukers to de-lurk?

- Set aside Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince to comb through journals from 1996?

- Wonder if your first real boyfriend ever moved out of his mother's basement?

- Let your gas go below a quarter of a tank?

- Not know how to remove the damn Bic white-out from your clothes?

- Want a baby girl because their names are prettier?

- Hope for a raise at your upcoming three-month review?

- Like Target sweatpant capris better than actual capris?

- Sport sandals on non-pedicured feet?

- Adore "Love Notes" and the essence that is Delilah?

- Ask lurkers to de-lurk?

No, I didn't think so.

Not What You Think

In case you can't tell by the picture I have bravely posted, I'm no supermodel. There are the sausage legs. Breasts that only look perky when they're inside a Victoria's Secret bra. A gut. Therefore, believe me when I say I am not using this image to stir feelings of lust or desire among the Internet elite. Instead, it is proof that I have the common sense of a moose. (But please don't call me a moose or I swear to God I will cry.) That is the only way I can explain why, at 12:30 in this afternoon, I found my private parts splattered with white-out.

Thanks to Luke, I was properly armed with a Tide to-go stick, but all it did was...actually, it did nothing, so I stayed close to my desk for the rest of the afternoon, because honestly, who wants to see their flabby co-worker's nether regions marked like small countries on a world map? The few times I had to venture away from the confines of my cubicle led to what I thought was an obligatory acknowledgement of the white-out, because nobody wants to be That Girl Who Totally Pretended She Didn't Have White-Out All Over Her Damn Self.

As evidenced by this and the spaghetti sauce incident, it's probably best that I either arrive for work in a full-sized body bib or abandon office environments altogether to work at home.